Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Zach picked up his mug and downed the rum. And with determination, he repeated his question, 'What happened to you?'

  'I had an argument with a young man. He threw a baseball at me and…hit me on the head.'

  'An argument.' Zachary's voice crackled with sarcasm.

  'In a way.' I fell silent. Zachary began fidgeting with a seam of the tablecloth.

  'Why don't you and Margery have children?' I asked. 'You would be a wonderful father.'

  He looked up sharply, and I added, 'What I mean to say is that if the cause is physical I might be able to help. She's still of childbearing years.'

  He grunted. I wasn't sure if a small laugh had not hidden in the gruff noise. He must have known that I needed time, that I couldn't talk about what happened so soon after. That I craved distraction.

  But his expression grew severe, his jaw worked, and his eyes lost their warmth. I wasn't so sure anymore that I wanted the distraction he was about to offer.

  He washed a hand over his face and the coldness dissipated. He even smiled a little. I drew in a breath I didn't know I was holding.

  'When I was a boy,' he began, 'I believed the world was white. That everybody was white. Everybody. All the men of importance, men in power, men with money. All white. The master and the mistress. White. Only mother was…mother. The colour of her skin was that of warmth, shelter, of an embrace when somebody hurt me. But one day… One day I saw my own reflection. Truly saw it. I saw myself in the mirror the way the white world saw me, how the men in power, the master and the mistress, and even their neighbours saw me.'

  His voice was that of a storyteller, with the same softness that he used when he read to Klara. As though he spoke of someone who had lived hundreds of years ago in a far-away kingdom.

  'The blackness wouldn't come off, no matter how hard I scrubbed. And then I looked at the men in power, the men with money and influence, and I knew that there was no place in that white world for me. That I would never amount to anything. A few years later I learned that we will always be slaves. Always. A girl from the neighbourhood turned thirteen, and a white man began pursuing her. Threatening her and her dad. The man was wealthy, had friends in high places. He sold pretty black girls to them. She begged me to take her away, to protect her. I swore I would.'

  His gaze dropped to Klara. Her lids were soft with dreams. 'We didn't get far. The police caught us, locked us up. Didn't explain for what. When the sheriff let that man in, I knew I had failed her. It took me nearly two years to find Margery and steal her away. They'd taken out her uterus, so they wouldn't get her with child. Babies were a bother to them. Margery and I went from farm to farm, picking blueberries, oranges, strawberries. Lent a hand to whoever needed cheap workers. She asked me to promise her to never let a man touch her again. And so I kept protecting her in the only way I knew.' He looked up, and added softly, 'At first, our marriage was a ruse. But over the years, we learned to love each other. Our wedding was small, only four people.'

  I rubbed the moisture off my cheeks, placed my hand on his shoulder, and croaked, 'I'm sorry.'

  'It is her secret as much as it is mine.' There was a warning in his tone.

  'Why are you trusting me with this now?'

  'Because it is time for Margery to trust someone. Someone who isn't me. She and I talked about it, and she asked me to tell you. She said she wouldn't be able to…not without crying. And she doesn't want to cry. Not in front of anyone.'

  He chewed on his words for a moment before he continued, 'You are keeping a lot of secrets and…I've suspected for a long time that you are running away from something. And that this something or someone has been frightening you very much in these past weeks. I’m afraid that Margery and I will lose what we have come to consider our…niece.' He dipped his chin toward Klara.

  Somehow, I had the impression he’d wanted to say ‘daughter.’ I managed a small nod.

  'We are hoping that you'll tell us before this something comes to our home, and that you won't run away without us.'

  I was lost for words. My jaw felt loose on its hinges. My throat was as heavy as a rock.

  'You wonder how I know.'

  'It scares me. How could I have been so careless, so…obvious.'

  'Margery and I have spent much of our lives on the run, but she didn’t suspect anything until I told her you wanted me to spar with you.'

  'There's a boxing club for women in London,' I blurted out. Klara twitched in her sleep.

  'That might well be, but how many gardeners are asked by their mistress to punch her in the face twice a week?' He poured more rum into our mugs. 'How many gardeners are asked by their mistress to refurbish the basement so that the neighbours aren't disturbed by her target practice?'

  I clapped my hands over my face. Nervous laughter bubbled up my throat.

  'You might wish to reconsider the photographs, though.'

  I looked up. 'What photographs?'

  'There are none, and that is the problem. One would expect you to keep a likeness of your husband, at the very least. Of your parents and siblings. But there is not one photograph in this house.'

  Dumbstruck, I sat back. 'You are…observant.'

  'Staying alert protects Margery.'

  'But you don't have to protect her anymore.'

  'I believe I do.' His arms tightened a little around Klara. She stirred and pressed a fist to her mouth. 'Will you tell me what happened tonight?'

  Softly, I brushed a lock of hair from my daughter’s face. 'Yes.' And I told him everything. About Warren, McCurley, and pale-eyed Joey. And when I began to talk about Moran…

  Zach held up a hand. 'Tell both of us tomorrow. This is too important to be done only half conscious. You are about to drop off that chair, Liz.'

  'I'll…sleep on the couch. My bed is occupied,' I said.

  'Margery woke up when Klara did. She'll be back in her own bed now.'

  Zach carried Klara into my bedroom. I was so wrung out, that I fell asleep the moment my arm curled around my daughter.

  * * *

  Sunrise found us in the kitchen. Cups of steaming tea, pancakes, bacon, and maple syrup were laid out. Zach and I were bleary-eyed, Margery was gruff and her hair dishevelled, and Klara was drawing faces into powdered sugar on her plate. We shared glances and heavy silence.

  The doorbell nearly tipped me from my chair. I was at the door before Margery could even move. With the telegram, a New Testament, and a pencil and piece of paper in my hands I returned to the kitchen and sat back down.

  Zach eyed the book. 'I didn't know you read that.’

  'It's the key to a cipher.' For a book cipher to work, each party had to use the exact same edition. The one I was using was Rheims' New Testament, Pocket Edition, published by Burns and Oates in 1888.

  It took only a few minutes to decipher the first line:

  S tracked M to Perpignan two days ago.

  My spine melted. I put my face in my hand as water began pooling in my eyes.

  Zach patted my arm. 'Bad news?'

  I shook my head. 'No, this is good news. Very good news.' I filled my lungs, and continued decrypting the message:

  Tracking A.K. from continent to America impossible. But weakness in our plan now realised: E.A. has no past. Arrangements with British Consulate forthcoming.

  'What?' I dashed the wetness from my cheeks, and accidentally brushed the tender and swollen spot over my eye. I flinched.

  Margery stood and fetched ice from the icebox.

  'It's not what I feared. But we should…' I looked at Klara who was still occupied with her sugar drawing. I didn’t want her to hear what I needed to say. 'We should sit in the garden. The blackbird chicks must have hatched by now.' This caught her attention. ‘But first we eat and clean up. Then we watch birds.'

  * * *

  While Klara was intent on pretending to be a shrub to better watch the blackbird parents fly in and out of their nest, I quietly spoke to Zach and Margery, and told them everything.
Or nearly everything. 'Please understand that I trust you. But I'm aware that I might be terribly wrong in that assessment.’

  Zach was about to protest.

  'Let me finish, please. The problem is that people change. Situations change. I have to weigh that possibility — the very real danger to my daughter's life — against the advantage of having you both on my side. On her side.'

  Zach's nostrils flared, 'We would never do anything to harm her!'

  Briefly I placed my hand on his. 'I know. But how many of your friends would you trust with your life? Or with the life of your wife?'

  'No one.'

  Odd, how hard and ready the answer fell from his lips.

  'You see my dilemma. But…' I touched the goose egg on my forehead. 'I told someone last night. A very small, but essential bit that might be enough for him to…find out who I really am.' I watched them. How their gazes flattened, their shoulders stiffened. How mistrust slowly crept in. 'Very little of what you know about me is true. My name, my past, everything is a lie. I'm not a merchant's daughter. I was born in a small village in Germany. My mother died just after she gave birth to me. My father was a carpenter. He raised me alone. There were times when he didn't know what to feed me.'

  Zachary's lids slid to half mast, cautious, wary. Margery went back to staring at the treetops. I had the feeling that she saw her own memories in the foliage.

  'My father's best friend financed my stay at university. I studied medicine. That was back in Germany. Women are still not allowed to…' I twitched a shoulder. 'Anyway. I pretended I was a man.'

  Margery turned, mouth agape.

  Zachary blinked. 'And then?'

  'I graduated, of course. And then Harvard Medical School awarded me a scholarship.'

  They clapped their hands to their mouths. Margery didn't produce a peep. Zach chortled until he could hardly breathe. 'Harvard! You fooled those arrogant pricks!'

  I grinned. 'They never guessed.'

  'Look at her.' Zach nodded in Klara's direction. She stood on the lawn, holding up several leafy twigs to hide her face and chest. She took a very slow step toward the nest. 'She's been at it since we sat down here. One step forward every time one of the birds is in the nest.'

  'She's nearly there.'

  'Don't take her away,' he whispered with an urgency that wrenched at my heart.

  'I don't want to. But there might come a time when I don't have a choice.'

  'Promise that you'll talk to us.'

  Klara took another step forward. Mother blackbird paused, cocked her head, and flew off without a warning cry.

  'I promise.'

  He squeezed my wrist. 'Thank you. Go on with your story now.'

  And so I did. 'There were moments when the wish to tell the truth was…overpowering. Logic told me that it was ridiculous to believe the female of any species is worth less that the male. But I had to remind myself that I can't fight the beliefs of old men. That I can’t eradicate stupidity with a snap of my fingers.' My gaze met Margery's. 'This must be so much worse for you.'

  She turned away again, her chin set.

  Zach reached out and touched her arm. 'What came after Harvard?'

  'Ah, yes.' My gaze drifted over the grass to a faraway place. 'I went to London. Worked as a bacteriologist and was…good at it. The police consulted me from time to time. And one day, I…was pulled into a crime that… No, I can't say I was pulled into it. I pulled myself into it. I could have ignored the subtle signs, could have reported all my findings to the police. But I knew they wouldn't investigate it further. I met a man — a detective. From the moment he laid eyes on me, he knew I was a woman. It terrified me. We investigated the death of a man who appeared to have died of cholera, and yet…more. We found that a group of physicians had tested pathogenic germs on him, and on many others. I infiltrated the group. Eventually, I met the man who controlled them, who financed their experiments. Or rather…I was abducted by him. He held me prisoner for half a year. Until I poisoned him.'

  My hands were shaking. I curled them to fists in my lap. Cleared my throat, and braced myself. 'Klara is his daughter.'

  Zachary sucked in a breath. Margery leant against him, still staring ahead, unseeing. She appeared so…hollowed out. What was she seeing as she listened to my story?

  'The detective and I learned that this man's plan was to use dangerous germs as weapons. We destroyed everything he had built, got all his men arrested. Except one of them: Colonel Sebastian Moran. The one on the photograph.'

  Zach opened his mouth, but I held up my right hand. 'He did this. He cut off my finger, and…' I told my lungs to stop pumping so fast. One breath in. One breath out. There. 'And on the day Klara was born, he almost killed us both.'

  I touched a hand to my shoulder. 'Clean shot. Merely half an inch from a major blood vessel, and close to Klara's head.' Just thinking of it made my stomach roil and my fists curl. Talking about it was…unbearable.

  Stoically, Zachary nodded and caressed Margery's arm.

  'The detective I told you about is hot on Moran's heels. He spotted him only two days ago in France.'

  'Does he have a name? This detective?'

  'I can't give you his name. It's not my secret to share and of no importance. What you need to know is the name and the face of Moran, and that he used a silent air rifle when he was hunting me. And that…' I cleared my throat. 'He swore to find us when Klara turns three.'

  Margery jerked away from Zach and looked straight at me. 'That is very soon.'

  'Yes.'

  'What is your real name?' Zach asked.

  'It is of no importance.' My voice came with a honed edge.

  He dipped his chin. 'I understand, but I'd like to know it anyway.'

  I touched my lips. It hadn't spoken my own name for a very long time. I wondered how it would feel… 'Anna.'

  Briefly, Zach smiled. 'Thank you.'

  I nodded.

  'Do you think he can find you? And why did you think it's him who threatened you? Or…whatever you discovered that terrified you.'

  'A man of the…British government wrote that Moran can't find us. I believe him. Our plan was intricate, carefully laid out. But someone else — the man I confronted tonight — did a foolish thing. He drew my portrait, and it got in the hands of a murderer. I keep thinking that he has a connection to Moran. It's unlikely, but this feels so much like what Moran would do. This show of power.'

  Zach looked puzzled.

  I added, 'The police found a photograph of that portrait — my portrait — on the body of Mrs Hughes.'

  'The new patient?' Margery asked with a squeak in her voice.

  'Yes. It was in the papers yesterday. My portrait on her body is…' I shook my head. 'I was so certain that it must have been him. Moran. He revels in the terror of his prey.'

  ‘He’s not the only one.'

  Shocked, I looked up. The words had come from Margery's mouth but hadn't sounded like her at all. Never before had I heard her speak with so much hate.

  The Third Victim

  Case Notes, June 30, 1893

  Notes on Dr Elizabeth Arlington, Friday, June 30, 1893

  Quinn McCurley, Bureau of Criminal Investigation

  * * *

  Registered as Elizabeth Arlington, nee Bowles, of 21 Savin Hill Avenue. Born September 1862. Claims to have moved to Zurich at age of 13 or 14 (1875/76), and studied medicine there (until 1884/86?).

  * * *

  Wired overseas to confirm Arlington's statement. Replies as follows:

  Zurich University: No alumni (medical or otherwise) registered under E. Bowles.

  Zurich Police Headquarters: One Elizabeth Edwards, nee Bowles registered, born 1843 in Wales, lived in Zurich between 1861 until her death in 1870.

  12

  Hattie spilled tea onto her fine morning dress. She placed the cup back onto the saucer, and flicked at the droplets with nervous fingers. 'I don't understand. How is this even possible? Are you sure the portrait was one o
f Warren's?' Again, she scanned my bruised eye. And again, she frowned at it.

  ‘In the portrait found on the body, my face was drawn in great detail. Warren put effort into my eyes and mouth. My hair was mere outlines, a few shadows here and there. One ear was only hinted at, the other hidden by my face. I looked directly at the viewer.' I threw a glance at Warren, who had the courtesy to drop his gaze. 'I looked as though I wanted to start an argument. Or throw things around.'

  Hattie muffled a cry. Warren coughed into his elbow bend.

  'That night…' Hattie began, wringing her hands. 'When Warren wasn't looking, I slipped it in my purse. But I didn't give it to anyone! I swear, Liz. I would never—'

  'You stole my sketchbook?’ her brother asked. 'Why would you do that?'

  'I didn't want to destroy the portraits with everyone around.'

  'So you took the sketchbook home with you.' I forced calmness into my voice. She'd said portraits. Plural.

  She bobbed her head, stood, and rang the bell.

  A maid arrived and dipped her knees.

  'Angie, would you fetch my purse, please.’

  We waited in strained silence. Hattie sipping her tea and eyeing her brother. I sat picking my nails under the table. Warren stared at the curtains.

  The maid arrived a few moments later, delivered the requested item, and was sent away again.

  Hattie pulled a brownish booklet from her purse, and placed it in front of her. 'See. It's here. It couldn't have been any of Warren's portraits.'

  My heart skipped a beat. I made to grab the sketchbook, but Warren was faster. He leafed through it and declared, 'They are gone.'

  Hattie dropped her teacup. It tumbled off the edge of the table and clonked onto the thick carpet. 'I think I'm going to be sick.'